"Get off me!" John yelled, kicking and writhing within the muscular arms that hoisted him into the air. He heard Sherlock shouting him, and he caught a quick glance at a very panicked, very white Sherlock looking horror stricken, trying to claw his way over through the thicket of the police battle.

"John!" He heard Sherlock. Sherlock had a chance to get away... And John would be damned if he prevented him from it.

"Fucking go! Sherlock! Leave!" John called, too desperate for Sherlock to get away to realise who then man was. He was sure Sherlock was calling him, but with the raucous created by the battle between Police and Jim's men, it was difficult to hear. He just hoped and prayed that Sherlock had understood.

"Shh... Calm down." Sebastian cooed into John's ear, and John flailed around in the man's arms. His eyes widened as his mode of transport came into view. "In you get." Sebastian threw John into the black van, and the doors behind him slammed shut. But he wasn't alone in the van.

John caught a quick glimpse of the leering man before the cotton bag was thrown over his head.

He yelled, and felt himself falling over as the van pulled away. His arms had been tied behind his back the whole time, owing to the Pete bloke, but now John started to panic further as he felt his ankles being bound together too. He was blind and immobile as he felt the van turn out of the driveway.

"Shh... Calm down..."

He could hear someone talking, but his complete disinterest prevented him from actually listening to what they were saying. All he knew was that the police car's heating was on, the window that the back of his head was pressed against was cold, the woman talking to him was an idiot, and that John had been kidnapped. Again.

He unfurled himself from his foetus like position, which had been facing the boring woman, and turned to face the steam clouded window. The lights of London whizzed past in an orange blur, but the rest of the city was obscured owing to the now departing fogginess of the window.

"Come on, it's okay..." The woman placed her hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It would have been comforting gesture, had it not been for his severe panic. He flinched the moment she pressed down, and swivelled himself around on the chair again back to face her. She looked confused, but was attempting a smile nonetheless.

"This is..." She sighed, apparently trying to find the right words. Sherlock blinked at her. He wasn't blinking back the tears which were threatening to tumble down his face. They were just a bit itchy. That was all. "He was your friend, right?" She asked. Sherlock sunk down lower in his chair, bringing his knees to his chin in the process and wrapping his arms around him. He nodded into his knee-caps.

What was John, really though? They'd only known each other a few days, but it felt like he'd known him for an eternity. He was the only one who'd ever shown him any interest, all except for Molly of course. But Molly had never risked herself for him, while John had. John was strong, and brave, and all the things that Sherlock could never be. He had found out about Sherlock's predicament, and ended up wanting to help him. Even after he'd stolen his apron. He'd spent a day hanging out with him, before any of the major problems had even started. Sherlock was rubbish at making friends. He was essentially a sociopath. John had changed that. Within just a few days John had come along and made Sherlock actually care about another human being. Not in the same way he had cared for Jim and Sebastian. He'd only cared about them because there was no one else for him to care about, and even then he was always unsure as to whether his level of concern for their wellbeing was reciprocated.

John had broken that spell of uncertainty. When he was with John, he no longer felt like a tumbleweed plant. Just bouncing around about flat landscape, completely lost and only following the direction that the wind took him in. John was the new breeze that pushed him towards the next puddle of water. He wasn't lost when John was around. He could think straight.

"William, isn't it?" The woman said, extending her had. Sherlock rubbed his eyes on his knees before straightening himself up against the backrest and extending his own hand.

"Sherlock." He corrected, and the woman smiled.

"That's an interesting name." She said it politely, but it caused a hitherto unknown string in Sherlock to snap.

"You don't know the half of it." He muttered bitterly.

"I should say I know a lot less than that. Do you want to tell me? It might be good to get it all off your chest before you start being questioned." She smiled warmly. Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "I'll take all the insults, too, so that the poor bastard who has to quiz you doesn't get to suffer them." Sherlock grinned. Whoever he ended up talking to was indeed in for a belting.

"Who are you?"

"My name's Mary, and I work with Mr Holmes."

Through the torment of plain white rooms that always came with specialised hospitals, Sherlock had eventually managed to come to an agreement with himself. The agreement being that he'd only communicate with another person if they seemed likely to help John. Although so far that list was at about three. He'd been surprised when Molly had come running into the room and flung her arms around his neck, and then he'd been introduced to some guy named Greg who was apparently John's friend.

He'd spoken to them at around eight o'clock in the morning, just after the doctor's strenuous battle in attempting to give Sherlock a sedative to help him sleep. They'd put some cream on his ankle, as the skin around it was quite sore from where the shocker had been. After that however (and incidentally the same time when someone had come in bringing tea), Sherlock had thrown a tantrum, demanding that they stop wasting time on him when while they continued to fuss; John was still in danger. They'd pulled back eventually, leaving Sherlock alone to ponder that nights events and to drink his tea in peace.

However, his somewhat troublesome, somewhat relaxing silence was not carried out for long, as a new man entered the room. Sherlock had been sitting on the floor in the corner, not wanting the comfort of the bed, the chair, or even the stool. He just wanted John.

"You look ill." Mycroft said, allowing the door to shut behind him. Sherlock scowled.

"Irrelevant."

Mycroft frowned, and sat down at the foot of Sherlock's bed.

"We're doing everything we can for John." Mycroft sighed.

"Well it's obviously not enough." Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "Oh come on, you've spent seven years monitoring me. Surely you must have learned that nothing gets done if you just sit on your backside. You should be charging into battle right now and rescuing him. He's not safe." Sherlock brought his knees up slightly so that his legs were in an arch, and rested his elbows on them, using his arm as a support for his head. He looked thoughtfully at his older brother, but Mycroft could still detect the seeping hatred in the innocent stare.

"We're not soldiers, Wil- Sherlock." Mycroft corrected himself.

"Don't bother." Sherlock waved his previous head-supporter hand in the air. "I'm William. I get it." Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

"So you know who I am?"

"I know enough."

"Like what?"

"Like..." Sherlock straightened himself up, still using the innocent expression as a mask "You're a pathetic excuse for a brother who sat on the sidelines while I got beaten up for asking simple questions like: 'Who's William?'. You sat there and watched me be used; you watched me forget everything about a life I once had. Let me delete a past life. I'm glad I forgot, come to think of it. I'm glad that my life isn't full of the incompetence that is you."

If this were a situation happening to another human being, they'd more than likely be close to tears. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt Sherlock's eyes scrutinise him, the currently cold, calculating orbs taking in every single significant detail. There were no tears in those eyes, not anymore, at least.

"I couldn't... It wasn't..." Mycroft was at a loss of what to say. "You don't know Moriarty."

Sherlock snorted.

"Wrong choice of words. You don't understand, William. He... He's not a very nice person." Sherlock laughed at the inept description. "Our mother and father had something going on with him, some form of bribery, I expect. They were exceedingly wealthy, and were very well respected within the British Government. I don't fully know the nature of what was going on, but it appears that one day Moriarty had finally had enough, and broke in. I awoke to shouting, and found mother and father cornered in their room. Moran was... He was pointing a knife at the both of them, and you were standing behind him, yelling at him.

"You started threatening him, little you could threaten him with, mind you. Such funny insults. I believe at one stage you called him a 'bull's scrotum'." Mycroft chuckled to himself, but Sherlock shifted uneasily. "Anyway, he no longer saw our parents to be of any interest and turned to you, instead. You saw me during your mad dash and pushed me into a cupboard... You shoved a broom against it so that I couldn't get out - which I wasn't best pleased about - before you continued sprinting around the house. I'm unsure as to what happened after that, but I managed to free myself and found your room to be blood soaked and trashed.

"Our parents were in there, both bleeding profusely. I called an ambulance and the police, but they died a few days later. It wasn't... You were my number one priority, William. You have to know that. I was sixteen. There's only so much you can do at sixteen years old, as you may well know. I finished my education, and worked hard to gain the same level of respect within the government that our mother and father had. I then started to dissect Moriarty's network to the best of my abilities.

"I was slow. Very slow. You were nine... You were nine and you managed to put me in a cupboard to keep me safe. You managed to extend our parents' live by a short amount. I owe you so much. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft was now looking at the floor, while Sherlock was sitting slightly stunned on the floor. After a very long and slightly awkward silence, Sherlock eventually spoke.

"So..." Mycroft lifted his head.

"So?"

"So you owe me a favour." Sherlock's eyes were twinkling as he spoke. Mycroft didn't like that new sparkle, but he had to keep to his word.

"... Yes." Sherlock leapt to his feet, and clapped his hands together, apparently finding a new lease on life.

"Great! I want you to get John."

Mycroft rubbed his forehead wearily, scowling at the request.

"William... We're doing everything we can."

"It's not enough. You said you owe me. I saved your life, now it's time for you to save John's." Sherlock beamed proudly. Mycroft sighed. He needed to go to bed, he needed to sleep, and he needed his younger brother to stop twittering on about saving John, especially when it might not be something that he'd be able to promise the result of. "What?" Sherlock asked, his face dropping slightly as he read Mycroft's.

"There are raids currently being carried out in all manor of places. We're not being idle with this. Scotland Yard and MI6 are both working together to try and-"

"Raids?" Sherlock interrupted. "What type of raids?"

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair before talking again.

"We've received a video." He said finally.

"A video?"

"Yes. Narrated by Moran. It's not... He's not hurt."

The words 'He's not hurt' hit Sherlock as though he'd been stung by a thousand wasps. He blinked at Mycroft, unseeing. What could lead Mycroft to say that someone wasn't hurt? That would imply that something bad was happening to them... Sherlock gulped.

"Can I watch it?" He asked, suddenly, and taking Mycroft back somewhat.

"I don't think that would be-"

"I don't care. I've lived with those two morons for seven years. I know them, sort of. I can work out their tactics. I might even know where they are. John Watson is my friend. This is happening to him because of me. You feel like you owe me? This is how you repay me. Let me in on this case."

Mycroft sighed.

"I suppose..." Before he could finish however, Sherlock had taken off out of the room.

–

That was bump number 14... Or maybe 15... He'd lost count. He'd attempted to count how many times they'd turned a corner, but then they'd encountered several roundabouts and he could of sworn they'd made a u-turn somewhere along the line, so he decided that it wasn't worth the effort.

Despite his situation, John wasn't worried, he'd actually calmed down considerably since the beginning of their journey. He was a bit startled, yes. Annoyed? Even more so. But he relished himself in the idea that because he was being taken, Sherlock had managed to leave that awful place behind, and was now (hopefully) in the hands of Mycroft. Although now he came to think about it, that might not be such a good thing. He was just glad for the fact that he wouldn't be there when they had their reconciliation.

The van ground a sudden halt, and John felt himself slide across the floor as the brakes were applied. He'd been moving around whenever the van took a corner too quickly, which had been a reoccurring event throughout most of the journey.

He heard the front doors of the van open, and then slam shut again. The crackle of gravel could be heard working it's way around the exterior of the van, until they reached the back and the doors clicked open. John felt his whole body tense up as a strikingly cold breeze infiltrated the van. Strong hands grabbed him by the ankle, and he attempted to kick whoever it was but failed in his floundering state.

Once the man had successfully put John into a fireman's lift, John felt himself being carried. His nostrils were full of the disgusting scent he always found lingering at the bottom of his Nan's backgarden. Maybe he was there? Maybe he was at his Nan's house and she'd invite him in for tea and custard creams and – no. That was stupid. He wasn't at his Nan's. But he could smell compost. Most definitely.

He hated not being able to see, but he believed that if he concentrated hard enough, he'd be able to gain a rough idea as to what was going on. However, he wished he hadn't been yearning to listen as the an Irish accent wafted into his eardrum. His stomach clenched.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"'E was in a police car, boss. We couldn' geh 'im."

John heard Moriarty sigh.

"Put him there, then. I trust you knocked him out?"

"Urgh, no."

"You're lucky I don't slice your head off, scoop out what little insides there are and give it to your mother as a vase." Moriarty spat. John wanted to be disgusted, but the image it painted in his mind was more comical than anything, and he snorted in a meagre attempt to stifle a laugh. Despite his situation, he was still rather giggly from his mockery session with Sherlock.

"Would you like me to do that to you, Johnny?" Moriarty asked, and John heard the source of the voice ebb closer.

"Can if you like." He did the best he could to shrug. "It would be a waste though. She's never really been one for flowers."

Moriarty laughed.

"Oh this is going to be fun."

I'm so sorry about the wait! And the shortness! I'm really very sorry. Thank you to everyone who's favourited, followed and reviewed. You're all ace and I love you to pieces.